


The Pretense of Remaining As We Were: A Collection

by Umbrella_ella



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kabby, Pining, Romance, post season two finale, wow I like being angsty ALTHOUGH weirdly enough I'm nicer to these two than my other otps
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 06:55:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3886570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbrella_ella/pseuds/Umbrella_ella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sunlight filters through the trees, and the breeze is almost too cold, but Abby pulls her sweater close, the one that smells of him, and lets her eyes close. She’d almost lost this, almost lost the feeling of warm sun on her skin, of the breeze fluttering through the leaves, and of Marcus, the feeling of him near her, his warm smile steady as he looks down at her, exhaustion rimming his eyes."</p><p>pretense [ ˈprēˌtens, priˈtens ] NOUN<br/>1. an attempt to make something that is not the case appear true</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Pretense of Remaining As We Were

Something’s shifted, changed between the two of them since Mount Weather, and even as they make the long journey back, they’re never far from one another, not really.

Marcus is never far from her, and she can feel him there, just outside the edge of her vision. It’s in the frequent looks he casts her way, when he thinks she’s not looking, in the prickle of her skin and the brush of his fingers against her arm as he keeps up with her, his steps steady, the occasional branch snapping beneath his boots.

Sunlight filters through the trees, and the breeze is almost too cold, but Abby pulls her sweater close, the one that smells of him, and lets her eyes close. She’d almost lost this, almost lost the feeling of warm sun on her skin, of the breeze fluttering through the leaves, and of Marcus, the feeling of him near her, his warm smile steady as he looks down at her, exhaustion rimming his eyes. When they stop to camp for the night, it’s chilly, and she shudders in the night air, even as the sweater is drawn closer still, bundling around her shoulders and bunching over her stomach.

They won’t let her walk anywhere, which is to be expected, but years of being a doctor make her a terrible patient, so when they offer her a blanket, she refuses, insisting that someone else in greater need gets it. Abby pretends not to notice as Marcus shifts closer to her, his own body heat warming the air between them, and he’s mere inches away.

The firelight catches in his eyes as she looks up, and she wishes she could look away, because what she sees is surely not meant for her, no, it’s a private emotion, a private thought, but she cannot help but remain there, staring unabashedly. In some moment, in some minute fraction of time, it shifts, and all of the moments before where neither of them could look away— they mean something else now. His eyes are dark, but kind, pupils blown wide in the dark, and Abby sees something she’s always seen, but she _sees it now_. She thinks she understands.

But it does not matter. So she smiles and pulls her gaze away, focusing intently on the crackling flame in front of her. He’s still looking, she knows, and she knows what it means.

It’s only when the hum of the forest in the night becomes too loud and the flames are dampened and their meager meal is finished that they turn in for the night, and even as Abby lets her heavy eyelids drift shut, she realizes Marcus has laid out his own blanket next to her.

When, finally, they’ve finished the long trek through the forest to Camp Jaha, he takes her hand and smiles down at her.

 _We’re home_ , Abby thinks, and relishes the feel of his rough fingers wrapped around her hand, soft where his grip could be harsh, and she doesn’t want to let go. She finds herself almost reaching for his hand when his fingers slip from hers.

The air is crisp and the leaves are turning when she finally is cleared to walk around by herself, and she and Marcus have barely spoken, barely held a conversation, and Abby briefly wonders if he is angry at her. They speak for mere minutes at a time, and he will be silent, and then there’s that look. The one that says everything she’s afraid of. It’s a reminder, a constant thrum of reassurance deep in her bones, it’s a risk, and maybe she should take it. _I’m here._

The clouds are dark and angry above them, and the sun is slipping below the horizon, the last rays of white glimmering just over the mountainside when he says it. The patter of rain is steady on the side of the canvas tent as he sits next to her, booted toe dragging through the quickly muddying ground.

“I thought I was going to lose you.” His voice is craggy, broken, and Abby wants more than anything to hold him. Marcus takes a sharp breath and Abby wonders if he thinks he’s said too much. The words themselves are said on a puff of air, and Abby thinks at first, that she’s heard wrong. He’s staring at her again.

The _something_ his eyes is back again, and there’s no looking away, there’s no mistaking it, and she can’t pretend it’s not there because his dark eyes are so full of hope, so heavy that it sends a rush of air rushing from her lungs and Abby can’t catch her breath because _by God, he’s beautiful,_ despite the dark circles beneath his eyes, and the way his dark lashes are too dark against pale skin— It’s okay, she thinks, this here, now.

Marcus’ eyes widen a fraction as she slips her hand in his, drawing comfort from the warmth of his palm. This feeling is familiar, they’ve done it before, but it’s different now.

“I’m here, Marcus.”


	2. As the Storm Rages On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He stands outside of her tent, only feet from the entrance, and watches the skies above darken with the coming storm. As the rain starts to fall, Marcus tilts his head up, savoring the sting of rain on his skin, and relishing the crisp wind that rises through the trees, even as the flesh on his arms raises in protest to the cold. He hopes he never gets used to this."
> 
> storm [storm] NOUN   
> 1\. a violent disturbance of the atmosphere with strong winds and usually rain, thunder, lightning, or snow.
> 
> VERB   
> 1\. move angrily or forcefully in a specified direction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this my second Kabby drabble in just as many days! Also, any timeline errors, or errors in general are my own-- I haven't actually caught up all the way, so from the brief clips I've seen, this is what I've come up with.

He stands outside her tent, only feet from the entrance, and watches the skies above darken with the coming storm. As the rain starts to fall, Marcus tilts his head up, savoring the sting of rain on his skin, and relishing the crisp wind that rises through the trees, even as the flesh on his arms raises in protest to the cold. He hopes he never gets used to this.

Marcus stands outside for as long as he can bear it, waiting and wishing. But he has to move sometime.

So he slips through the entrance to the tent.

The moment he’s there, he feels wrong— the air is strange, too heavy for two people, and he feels like he’s intruding somehow, here, in Abby’s private space, in her private life. He’s only been here a few times, and always by way of invitation, but now, he’s an unwelcome guest.

Marcus is surprised to see Abby standing in the center of her tent, hunched over a table, her shoulders drawn, her stature too small, too defeated to possibly be Abby Griffin. He shifts, and she sees him. A flickering lantern casts long shadows on the canvas fabric of the tent, and the dim light deepens the shadow of grief that has etched itself between her eyebrows— it’s a sight Marcus Kane hates.

Abby shifts, attempting to move in front of the map she’d clearly been looking at.

“Please, tell me you’re not thinking of going after her, Abby.” Marcus says it slowly, dragging his fingers, stained with dirt and hardened with callouses, through his wet hair.

Abby swallows, her throat bobbing in the light, and Marcus wishes more than anything that he could cross the distance between them and bury his nose in her hair and envelope her until all of her grief came crashing down on him, because that would be better than this. Anything would, really.

“What do you want, Marcus?” Her voice is brittle, tired, like she’s been awake for too long and maybe she has. They all have.

Her rickety little tent she’s set up for herself sways slightly– they didn’t expect the storm to be this bad. Her eyes are red, her face pale and drawn and somehow, he knows. She knows that Clarke is gone.

Marcus steps closer to her, and she edges away, wincing as she puts weight on her leg.

He doesn’t answer her question, only says, “You should be resting.”

His voice sounds like it’s in a tunnel, and he thinks maybe it’s because he’d screamed himself hoarse in that mountain. He feels raw, and the storm brewing outside the camp, he can feel it on his skin and he swallows thickly, throat sticking.

“What. Do. You. Want?” Abby asks again, her eyes glittering in the half-dark.

_You._

He could say it. He could tell her everything he loved about her, tell her how she made him feel, tell her how his heart had been shattering in his chest as she was ripped from his side, tell her how her screams had inched their way into his chest, clawing at his insides, wanting to burst forth and mangle his heart.

Marcus blinks.

“I… To make sure you’re alright.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Abby smiles tightly, her lips contorting into a false smile that Marcus hates, “my leg is fine.”

“I’m not talking about your leg, Abby. You know that.” Marcus meets her gaze levelly, and it’s astonishing how quickly her eyes shift from steel and metal to warmth and softness and unbridled grief.

“I know,” Abby whispers it, more for herself than him, he thinks, and his heart pounds beneath his jacket as she steps closer, nearly closing the distance between them. All it takes is two steps, two steps and he can hold her to him, soft and warm and _Abby_ , and he could kiss her and reassure her and tell her false words, feed her niceties about how _it’s all going to be okay, Abby_ , but he can’t and he won’t, because Abigail Griffin is the best thing that ever happened to him and Marcus Kane will not lose her to the lure of false promises. So instead, he doesn’t say a word, not as he holds her, and her shuddering gasps of grief, raw and open, are splitting him open at the seams.

Instead, he smoothes his hand over her hair, her sloppy attempt at looking presentable frizzing and tangling with the arrival of the storm. She smells like sweat and soap, and he wonders if she’s ever experienced soaking in a hot tub of water for minutes upon minutes on end, wonders if she’s known a moment’s relaxation even after they’d landed on Earth.  

When her shoulders slow to a steady rise and fall, and her tears have stopped, they still stand like that, close, embracing, and Marcus wants to raise hell for her, he wants to tear the Earth up rock by rock until he finds Clarke for her, because he’s sure nothing but that will stem this flow of raw, aching, terrible grief.

Abby shifts against him, and suddenly, he’s looking into the tear-stained face of the woman he’d been in love with for years.

“Thank you, Marcus,” her voice is softened, almost gravelly, and a sudden bolt of lightning illuminates the tiny tent, and Marcus sees something there, in her eyes, in her face, in the way she does not move away, even after their embrace has ended and the way his hands have moved to her hips surpass the bounds of even close friendship and suddenly her lips are on his and it’s the sweetest thing in the world because she tastes of honey and sweat and everything and more than he could have ever imagined and he kisses her back because he has this now, and he cannot let go. Letting go is impossible, because she presses impossibly closer and her body is flush against his, and her fingers are tangling in his hair, and he shudders against her as a trickle of rainwater trails down his neck to his sweater collar, slipping to the heated skin beneath.

When he breaks away, he sighs into her hair, and brushes her brow with the faintest of kisses before pulling away fully to look at her. Her lips are swollen and red, and her eyes are shining in the fading light of the lantern, and she smiles at him.

It does not reach her eyes, not yet, but she leads him to the small cot, barely big enough for the both of them, where he pulls off his boots and lays with her in a tangle of limbs and sleepy, whispered conversations, even as the rain beats a staccato rhythm against the side of the tent.

And if somewhere between waking and dreaming, between the stormy night and the beautiful sunrise, he tells her that he loves her, well, it’s enough for the both of them.  

**Author's Note:**

> I hope I did the characters justice! Please feel free to leave a comment or kudos!


End file.
